Second Chances: Tales from the Road Not Travelled
by bellaknoti
Summary: Before she died, Daveth promised Liddy's mother he'd protect her with his life... and he does. Pol runs from the gibbet, all the way to the Dalish, where the shy halla-keeper struggles to come out of her shell and embrace Junar, before it's too late. (Companion piece to Road Not Travelled; random stories told in the same universe.)
1. Inherited Debt

A tall man with black hair sits on a rumpled bed, a worn quilt with two small pillows at the head. A small woman with raggedly cut red hair sits across from him, one leg curled up under the other. A smudge of dirt darkens one cheekbone.

"Three and a half bits, Daveth," she observes. "No matter how we rearrange the coins on the coverlet, it's still only three and a half bits. Not enough for the rent. Just enough to eat today, and then that's it."

"We'll go down and talk to Slim again. He always has a job for us. If we can get him to give one to each of us, we'll have a silver for Morven before nightfall, and we can figure out how to pay for a room later."

The girl's brow furrows. "But, we'll have to give him our last three bits," she exclaims, but he holds up a hand.

"No. We have to get the money somehow. One thing at a time, right?"

She nods, reluctantly, dejected.

"I promised your mum I'd keep you out of Morven's house. So come on. Let's go." He rises from the bed and puts their few belongings into a couple of packs.

They leave the room in the dingy boarding house and wend their way through the complex and twisting system of alleys that they know like their own hands. They find Couldry in The Lamb and Thistle, just around the corner from The Pearl.

Daveth and the girl slip into the seats near the elf-blood. Daveth looks to the girl, and she gives Slim her most winning smile. Her voice is coquettish when she speaks. "Hi, Slim." She bats her eyelashes at him and presses her elbows together in front of her, to show off her cleavage. "Any word for us today?"

Couldry sets down his mug. He isn't above admiring the view, but he is also not fooled in the slightest. His voice comes out flat and weary. "Save the charm, girl, you know it don't work on me no more," he sighs. "What is it, lost your silver to the dice again, eh, Daveth?" Daveth ducks his head, but Liddy is quick to defend him.

"No, actually. We gave it to Daveth's mum on account of his little sister got the heaving croup and had to be taken to the Chantry to get healed." She tilts her chin up defiantly. Slim looks abashed and holds up his hands.

"All right, all right, so you need another line, I see. Well, listen." He leans forward and lifts his mug to his lips. It comes up empty, and he frowns. Daveth sighs, catches the barmaid's eye, and points to Slim. When his mug is full again, he takes a long pull, and sighs with satisfaction. "Ahhh. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Bann of Honnleath's wife has been in disfavour this season with the other court ladies, so she has planned a strategic tour of Highever. While she's gone, she paid some guild men to paint her rooms. She'll be gone for weeks." He drains his mug, then rises from the table. "Well, I'll be seeing you," he says, then strolls out of the tavern.

The barmaid comes over. "Oi. Ye' gonna pay for tha'?" She gestures to Slim's abandoned mug. Daveth sighs.

"Yes, how much?"

"Four bits."

"Four bits? For one mug of ale?"

"Na', four mugs." She holds out her hand, opening and closing it rapidly a couple of times, impatiently. "C'mon, got customers waitin'. Ain't got all day."

"We got us three an' a half to our names. Slim left us holding his tab wi'out even askin'. Come on, Melia, have a heart." Daveth looks at Liddy, surprised when she knows the barmaid's name.

Melia gives Liddy a skeptical look, then slumps. "Aye, alright, I'll take it out o' his hide. He won't say no if he wants to have another pint 'round here." She snorts, then turns on her heel, waving a hand at another patron. "Aye, I hear ya, keep yer trews on!"

Daveth and Liddy exchange a long look.

"She'll be out of town," he says, his voice smoothing out. He looks at her like he's trying to romance her.

Her heart skips a beat. She knows she's going to lose this argument. When he looks at her like that, she always gets into some kind of trouble, because she can't help but say yes. But she tries.

"The place will be crawling with guild men," she counters.

"We can be in and out the kitchen door before anyone's the wiser."

"We'll be made as soon as we show up."

"We dress up as delivery people." He grins at his own improvisational cleverness.

"We need time to case it!"

"We don't have that kind of time."

"So we should find something more legit!" she protests.

"The payoff is huuuge. We could find enough to keep you out of their hands for six months, and we've only got today."

There's nothing she can say to that. She can't end up being one of Morven's girls. She nods once, decisively. They rise from the table and head outside.

Unfortunately, standing around the entrance to the Lamb and Thistle are six of Morven's enforcers. Liddy and Daveth are quickly surrounded. They stand back to back and they pull knives out of their boots.

"I've got until nightfall, Morven said," Liddy says cautiously, taking courage from the solid weight of Daveth behind her.

"Na'," their leader says, "He said 'after supper', which was half an hour ago."

"But supper is at the end of the day," she objects.

"Na', girl, that's dinner. Come on, don't fight it and it'll be a lot easier." He takes a step closer to Liddy, a little too close, and whispers intimately. "You know I can make it hurt without leaving a mark." Against her back, she feels Daveth tensing with anger. "So, you're coming with us, little Liddy, aren't you. Back to the House. Unless your friend here can pay up to buy you out again, before it's too late." He chuckles, obviously doubtful of Daveth's powers to come up with enough scratch.

Liddy reluctantly sheathes her daggers and holds out her hands. "Alright. Fair enough. Fair enough. Can I just say goodbye first?" She pulls on Daveth's shirt, gets him to turn around. She wraps her arms around his neck and presses her mouth to his ear, her hair falling around her face to hide her lips. "I'll be okay. Don't do anything stupid, or there will be no one left to help me." Then she kisses him on the cheek and lets him go.

One of the goons grabs Liddy around the waist and throws her over his shoulder like a sack of rice. She pushes herself up, using his back as leverage, and watches Daveth as long as the curving of the alleys will allow. His face is the picture of helpless agony.

Mr. Big, Dumb, and Violent drops her unceremoniously at Morven's feet, a small eternity later. "Found her, boss. At the Lamb and Thistle, with that man o' hers again." Morven looks at Liddy, a speculative leer on his face.

"So. The prodigal daughter returns." He purrs, oozing oily pretensions of sex appeal. He prods her thigh with the toe of his boot as he circles her. She remains on her knees, her head bent, the picture of all that is meek. She twists her fingers together to keep them from shaking.

"Got too expensive for him, did you?" He prods her again, none too gently, but not so hard that there will be a mark. Oh, no, he is a master at that.

"Eh?" Prod. "Or maybe you just got boring." Prod. "No?" She grits her teeth and presses her lips together, fighting to stay still, to not react. He leans down to whisper intimately in her ear.

"Did you let him take it from you yet? Hmm? Did he get his fingers into you? Did he make you scream?" He jumps back, laughing, as her head whips around, teeth bared. The guards push her shoulders down as her hands come up. She struggles momentarily, then sits still again.

He grabs her chin, forces her to look up at him. His eyes are calculating, reptilian. "Save yourself some pain and humiliation, Lidrian. Tell me the truth so I don't have to have you whipped. Did he take it from you?" She closes her eyes and an involuntary tear slips down her cheek. She shakes her head, no.

Morven leers. "I knew that little banty cock was all crow." She bows her head again as the lackeys laugh. He circles her again. "I'm tired of waiting while he sits on a gold mine. We're doing this tonight. Have her cleaned up and dressed like a courtesan. Go for the whole deal - silks, perfumes, all of it. Put her in the harem room. We'll set the event for sundown, so we can put her up by candle light. Make sure the silk ropes are available. Send four to hand out chips in the bars, eight bits a chip. Go." He waves his hand, and one of the men bangs on a panel in the wall before all the muscle files out.

"Eight bits?" she shrieks, beginning to struggle. The men hold her in vise-like grip. "You've got us paying four silvers a month!"

Morven leans down, a sneer on his face. "Your mother was only a bit a go," he spits. "As much trouble as you've given me, you're not worth a higher price."

The panel pops open then and the Matron appears with two maids. They gather Liddy up by the arms and lead her out. She glares over her shoulder at Morven, who wears a gloating sneer.

She is dressed in the most ridiculous outfit, with sheer panels covering mostly nothing, and cheap painted gold bangles all over her. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and a couple of girls paint her face and put perfume on her. One of the women applies a heavy ointment to her wrists. "It will keep the rope from cutting you, for a while," she whispers.

Another gives her a cup of tea. "Drink this, they won't get any children on you tonight," she urges.

A third tucks a small vial into her cleavage. "Swallow this, just before. You won't know what's happening." Her eyes are sad, and hollow.

The last tucks two packets of herbs into the little pocket at the front of her skirt. "Eat one of these when the pain becomes too much."

The fancy, embroidered silk sleeves are laced up her arms. On the way to the room, the woman she is walking with unexpectedly gives her a fierce look. "I was friends with your ma'," she whispers. "I saw you born. This is hers." She takes Liddy's hands at the doorway, and presses close for a hug. Liddy feels a dagger sliding up the inside of her sleeve. The older woman pulls back and smooths the hair from Liddy's forehead. She smiles. "You look just like her. So beautiful." The guards eye the pair of them warily.

One steps forward. "Alright, that's it, get out of here, Greta," he says gruffly, shooing the older woman away. She turns, her pace steady, as though she had merely decided to walk away. Liddy takes a deep breath and lets the guards push her into the bedroom. Then they shut the door. She hears a bar drop.

"Someone will come to bind you to the bed shortly. Best wash yourself up and get ready, little bird," one of the guards laughs at her through the door.

Liddy tests the weight of the dagger in her hand. It's good, easy, natural. She smiles. The windows don't open, so she stands next to the door, against the wall, and waits.

The guards turn out to be particularly stupid. Only one comes in, at first, and he isn't expecting her to have a blade. She jumps on his back and drives her dagger straight into his neck. He falls before he can shout for help. She quickly takes his belt, his sword, his coin, and his shirt.

The door was never barred again, she knows that much, so she swings it open and stands behind it. When the second guard notices nothing else happens, he comes in to investigate. She quickly takes him down, but he has already raised the alarm. She grabs his pouch and takes off running down the corridor. She skids to a halt at the turning of the hallway as two more of Morven's men come up the stairs. She stands at the ready, but the men do not take pause.

They draw blades with grim faces, and attack. She backs up into the hallway, forcing them to come at her one at a time. The first closes, looking feverishly excited. Her stomach turns. She bats his blade aside and comes in low with her dagger, gaining a strike high on the inside of his thigh. He bellows and presses her back, but his attack is clumsy, and she drives the point of her sword straight through his chest.

She vaults over the fallen man, as the second scrambles backward for better ground. Too late; she strikes home with both of her blades, slashing his throat. The women of the house stand in the doors of the hallway behind her, stunned. "Fly!" She shouts, motioning to the stairs. She turns and charges down to the first floor.

There are half a dozen more guards downstairs, and Liddy defeats them all, before finally facing Morven in his office. She has him backed against the wall, cowering, when the city guard come in. She doesn't see them at first, and they are witness when she strikes off his head.

She is covered in blood, from head to toe. She grins as they arrest her and clap her in chains. They drag her outside. Kylon begins explaining to her that she has been caught red-handed, literally, and will be hung in the morning.

"Liddy!" Daveth shouts. She smiles, and looks up. He is standing on the edge of the crowd. A tall, dark-haired man next to him puts his hand on Daveth's shoulder and approaches the head of the guard.

"Sergeant Kylon," he begins, and the guardsman tips his head back to look up at the sky, a long-suffering look upon his face.

"Let me guess," Kylon interrupts, "The Right of Conscription?" Duncan nods. Kylon sighs.

The guards release her bonds at a gesture from Kylon. She runs to Daveth and they embrace, jubilant. He sets her down. "Liddy, this is Duncan. He's a Grey Warden." Liddy looks at him in awe.

Duncan looks at her. "You are now a Grey Warden recruit. Come with me, there is much to explain and little time. We leave tonight."

Daveth and Liddy exchange looks. He grabs her hand and smiles, reassuringly. They hurry after the man who just saved them both from the noose.


	2. Nothing Left of My Life

Ostagar is a gigantic place, and they are awed by the scale, the sheer scope of it. They've never been out of Denerim before, and the whole of Ferelden is a revelation to them. Meeting King Cailan terrifies them both so much that Daveth is pretty much speechless, and Liddy is all full of "Yes, Ser" and "No, Ser". Soon enough, they are released to seek out some lunch. They sit by the fire, empty bowls forgotten on their laps.

Her voice is flat. "You did what."

Daveth has the good grace to look sheepish. "Yeh, I nicked his purse. The guard caught me, and Kylon-"

"Of course they did!" she explodes. "I told you, he knows your face!"

Daveth holds his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. "Hang on, hang on, let me finish, Liddy." He watches her, and she sighs impatiently, gesturing for him to get on with it. "Right. So, like you said, he knew my face, right, he remembered me from before... with that merchant. So, they were all set to string me up right then-"

"WHAT?" Liddy is horror-struck.

He catches her hands and pulls her closer. "Nah, nah, see, that's where it gets good. See, that's when he comes back, right, and he says to Kylon, 'Excuse me, but I believe that purse belongs to me.' So Kylon turns around whilst the others were fitting me for a noose. Kylon puts it in his hand, the purse, right, and he's about to say something to the other guards when Duncan puts his hand on Kylon's shoulder. And then he says, 'If these are the coins that all his life is worth, then you can take them, and he can come with me.' And all the while, I'm thinking I'm done for, and what's going to happen to you, my Liddy?"

Her eyes fill with tears, and he puts a hand to her cheek, brushing one away with his thumb. "So then, Kylon says, no, I have to hang, and then Duncan says, 'I invoke the Gray Warden's Right of Conscription. You will release him into my custody, and we will leave Denerim tonight.' And the guards all gawp at him, and Kylon looks like he just swallowed a bowl of me mum's blood pudding, and so then the guards have to let me down, and I go with him."

"But, how did he know where to find me?"

Daveth face twists with affront. "Well, I was hardly going to leave you there, was I? Knowing what was going to happen? I nearly got the gibbet for want of your freedom. So I says to Duncan, I ain't going without Liddy, and then he wants to know all of it, so I tell him if he wants me to come with him, then he's got to get you out or I'll just go back to Kylon and swing, 'cause..." He takes a deep breath, and his voice drops to a whisper. "I told him... ain't nothin' left of my life anyway, without you, if I couldn't save you from Morven. I gave my word, I said. Protect you with my life, I said."

She watches him, her eyes full of shock and tears. He looks sad, and fierce, at the same time.

"So he sees I'm not budging and I ain't kidding, and we come to get you, but by then you're already covered in blood and being dragged out Morven's front door. And, well... you know the rest. Did I do it, Liddy? Did I get there in time?"

The anxious furrow to his brow makes her heart twist, and she kisses his forehead to smooth away the fear. She rests her head against his and looks him in the eyes.

"Yes, Daveth, you got there in time. But the skill you taught me with a knife is what really saved me. So, in a way, you saved me from that without even being there. Thank you. For everything." They hug tightly.

This is when Duncan approaches, and sends Liddy to find a Warden named Alistair and the other two recruits. They part ways, promising to meet again later. Liddy wanders about the camp, and thinks to check with the army. She gets a guard to give some poor man in a cage a scrap of bread. He reminds her of the boys back home, and she feels sad for him. She finds the Redcliffe knight, Jory, and sends him back to the fire.

She makes friends with the dog keeper and gets barked at by some of the longbowmen. She finds the Dalish archer, Junar, amongst them, and sense him back to Duncan, too. She meets a mage, and stands outside an archway, watching the purple pulse of energy being woven by the magic users within. Eventually she finds her way across the camp to a wide open stretch, where she finds a man in splintmail being cheeky to a mage.

He is friendly, and disarmingly handsome. She feels herself blushing furiously, and Daveth shoots her a look when they reach the fire. She blushes again, this time in embarrassment. Daveth stands next to her and bumps her elbow with his own while they are being given their instructions.

She isn't sure what she had expected, but the Korcari Wilds are quite a shock to the two gutter rats from Denerim. However, since this is the first time she's really had the chance to actually put her practice to work, Liddy finds herself strangely exhilarated, even though she is often covered in blood and other things much less pleasant to contemplate. Daveth sticks close to her side, trying to defend her, but it quickly becomes apparent, at least to her, that the pupil has far outstripped the teacher.

The Dalish holds his own, and she comes to respect his silent skill. She quickly becomes tired of Ser Jory. "Spineless," Daveth mutters. Her mouth twists in a wry grin, and she nods.

As the daylight wanes, they straggle back into camp, treaties and vials in hand. She stops off momentarily to deliver the small white flower to the kennel master, and then they make their way over to Duncan.

She and Daveth try to soothe Jory as they wait in the dark for the Ritual to begin: brave words, voices of conviction. Then it all happens so quickly. Daveth, brave Daveth, he steps forward, he goes first. He looks back at her, that smile, so self assured, and that is the last moment she sees him alive. The contents of the cup choke him, he falls to the ground, fighting, screaming as the light glows out of his eyes and he collapses, twitching, then silent. Motionless.

She doesn't realize she is trying to reach out to him until she feels Alistair's hands fall gently to rest upon her shoulders. "He's gone," he whispers. Liddy's heart turns to stone. She cannot breathe.

_Ain't nothin' left of my life anyway, without you._

Dimly, she registers that Jory tries to defect.

_"Spinless," he muttered._

Duncan kills him. Liddy feels nothing. She stares, wide-eyed, at Daveth, laying on the stones.

Junar takes the cup and falls to his hands and knees, shaking. He curls up and clutches at his head, and a sharp little scream escapes him. After a moment, he shakes his head, and staggers to his feet.

Daveth is just laying there, no breath, no more smiles, no more jokes, no more the reassuring weight of him at her back.

_What's going to happen to you, my Liddy?_

The cup is put in her hands.

_Ain't nothin' left of my life anyway, without you._

She drinks.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

He helps her up, that other Warden, Alistair. She is numb. She looks at Duncan. Meet with the King, he says. Join in the battle, he says. She nods. It's all the same now. May as well just get on with it.

Light the signal fire, he says.

She nods again. "It's okay, Alistair. We all have to do our part."

She is relieved when it turns out the place is overrun by darkspawn. She loses herself in the rhythm of the blade, in the stab, the lunge, the kill. When she sees the ogre, she is almost hopeful. Here is something big enough to kill her. She fights like a well-oiled machine, but her apathy leaves her dangerously open. Alistair is the one who rides it to the ground, his sword protruding from the back of its neck.

Light the fire, he says.

That's when everything goes white.

_I ain't going without Liddy._

_I was hardly going to leave you there, was I?_

"I'm coming, love, I'm coming," she whispers.

"What was that?" a woman's voice answers.

Liddy sits up too quickly and clutches at her aching head. It's her, the Witch.

Her mouth is full of the taste of dirty socks. She makes a face.

Wait, what was that? "My friends?"

She stumbles outside. They turn around, the lake and the forest behind them, the sun shining down on them both, and the sorrow heavy upon their shoulders. Alistair and Junar, the Warden and the Dalish.

"We're in this together, now," she finds herself whispering.

_Ain't nothin' left of my life anyway, without you._

She takes a deep breath, choking back the tears.

_Sorry, love, I've got no choice. Got to make me a new one._

She looks up at the Warden's face. Compassion, kindness, resolve, all written there in his eyes. She puts her hand in Alistair's, and follows him.


	3. Can't Go Home Again

Pol is hanging around the back door of the Lamb and Thistle, waiting for Melia to finish her shift. "Predictable," a man's voice says, and he turns around.

"Daveth," Pol says, wary. Daveth grins, and this is not reassuring, at all.

"Pol, just the man I was looking for. I knew I would find you here." His face falls, looking much more serious. "Morven's got Liddy again."

This is not what he was expecting to hear, and the news saddens him. "I'm sorry. What will you do?"

"I've got to make four silvers by the end of the day, or they'll..." He swallows, looking sick. "Can't leave her to that fate, Pol. Not my girl," he says, almost pleading. Pol looks at him distrustfully. Every time he sees Daveth, it ends up being some kind of trouble.

"What do you want from me?" There is that flicker of calculation in Daveth's eyes, that bit of the mercenary that always gives him pause when dealing with the big shem.

"I've been talking to Slim," he begins, and Pol groans. "No, no, hear me out! The Bann of Honnleath's wife is leaving her house open for workers to be in and out, changing everything. We could nip in and out, take enough to get Liddy out and buy us some dinner. Easy as pie."

Melia opens the kitchen door and steps out. She stops when she sees Daveth and Pol, and eyes them both suspiciously. "Daveth." She spits his name like he's a wharf rat sniffing at her stew. "What are you on about with my Pol?" she demands. "You're like to get him hung, you gambling roustabout." She turns her gaze on the elf. "Don't you dare be listening to what he's got to say, it's none of it good."

Perversely, her concern makes him want to rebel. Pol sticks his hands in his pockets and smiles innocently. "Na', Melia, we was just talking about dinner. I'll see you 'round the _vhenadahl_ tonight, a'right?" She presses her lips together, narrowing her eyes, but says nothing more. She walks up, getting very close, and looks up at him. He watches her nervously, unsure of what she intends.

She goes up on her toes, leans into him, wraps her arms around his neck, and kisses him, full on the lips. Just when he's getting over his surprise and beginning to respond to her soft, questing little mouth, she pulls back. "See that you do," she breathes. Then, with one more unfriendly glance over her shoulder at Daveth, she saunters off, back toward the alienage. Pol stares after her, open-mouthed, and Daveth laughs.

"Blast," he mutters, "I forgot to ask her for a pie." Daveth laughs even harder.

"Must've been good, to make you forget your stomach," he says, wiping away a tear of mirth. Pol scowls.

"A'right. I'll go with you, but I'm not going to make you any promises. I'll look. That's all."

"Fair enough," Daveth says, but that predatory gleam in his eye makes Pol shift uncomfortably.

The estate is woefully, and fortuitously, under-guarded. Daveth has a plan to pose as delivery people. "How do we do that, then?" Pol asks. "We haven't got any clothes, or anything to deliver."

Daveth grins. "That's the clever bit, see, we just go in there, and pick up some of the stuff sitting there, and carry it in the house. Easy as pie."

"You keep saying that, but pie is _not_ easy to get," Pol says, his stomach growling. Daveth laughs and claps him on the shoulder.

"Just think what you could get for your pretty Melia with your share of the take, eh?" Pol sighs.

"Right. Let's go then."

Daveth and Pol approach the back gate of the estate, pick up a crate each, and carry them inside, like they're just doing their jobs. They find themselves in the kitchen, and set their crates down on the table. Pol starts rummaging around in the drawers, looking for silver, and Daveth prowls off into another part of the house.

He can hear workmen coming and going, and, with Daveth gone to another area, he begins to feel paranoid. He finds the silver and stuffs several butter-knives and spoons into his pockets, looking around quickly. Daveth doesn't return, so he heads out the back door. "Ain't gonna swing for the likes of him," he mutters.

He is in the middle of a wide-open area, half-way across the yard, when a couple of burly shem workers come through the gate. One of them points at him. "Oi. You're not one of our elves. Who are you?" the shem demands.

Pol panics, and bolts. "Oi! Bloody thievin' knife-ear!" the other man shouts, and Pol can hear them closing in on all sides. He grabs onto some ivy and scales the estate wall, leaping over the top and onto the ground outside, his feet just a breath out of reach of the shouting shems on the inside.

He sprints up the street and around a corner, ducks through several alleys and up another street, over someone's hedge and into an alcove where he can't be seen. He hopes. He waits, his heart pounding in his throat, and tries to control his breathing. He hears shouting and running, but none of it comes near. After a while, there is nothing. Pol waits for a long time, listening to the quiet, before he finally creeps out of his hole.

He makes his way down to the docks, keeps his head down, and hopes that he won't be seen by the workers from the estate. It takes him a while to find the man he's looking for, but he finally locates a fence by the name of Ferret, who will launder anything, for a price. Pol stands there, nervously, watching the Ferret look over all the silver he brought with a critical eye. He tests the quality, scratching at it a bit, and then holds it up to the light.

"Well..." he says, "I see it's fine silver, quite right. But you see this crest here? The Bann of Honnleath, yeah? I'd have to melt all this down to make anything of it. That's going to cost you extra, and take away from your coin, you understand?" Pol nods. 

"I don't much care. I got out of there with my skin," he replies. "Any coin I make on top of that's a blessing."

The Ferret nods. "Fair enough." He rises from the stool he's been occupying, leaving the silver on the crate they've used as a table. "Let me get my scales, and some coin."

The Ferret disappears behind a stack of crates, and Pol waits, shifting nervously. He looks around, but all is quiet. Time passes, and Pol starts to feel paranoid again. This time, when he turns around, there are those two shem workers, right behind him, wearing identical, wicked grins. The Ferret speaks, and Pol turns around again, trying to keep all three of the shems in his sight. "You stole from the wrong house, knife-ear," the Ferret says. "That was _our_ house."

One of the shem workers starts tying a noose, and the other cracks his knuckles. Pol backs away, slowly. "Uh, I don't know nothin' about it! I just went in there with a friend, we was just tryin' to make a few silvers to get through the day, y'know? Y- you can have the silver, I don't care; I'm not tryin' to step on anyone's toes now," he babbles, holding his hands up.

The shem with the noose laughs. "Yeah yeah, but now we're made, and the place has shut up real tight. So instead of the entire haul, all we got is this pitiful pile of silver _you_ took."

The brute shem continues, "So the only way we've got now, to earn us sommat from all this, is to sell the corpse of a knife-ear. Right buyer, that pays real well."

Pol fetches up against a stack of crates, and has nowhere else to run. The three shems close in on him, his death in their eyes. He does the only thing he can do. He scrambles up the crates, sending them flying backwards onto the shems, and makes a run for it. They follow him, and as he runs along the docks, he realizes how much attention he is drawing. Other shems are gathering ahead, ready to cut off his escape route.

He glances around, and turns at the last second, bolting down the pier and throwing himself straight into the ocean. He sinks under the water; a wave carries him back toward the shore, and smashes him into one of the pylons that anchor the dock to the ground. He loses his breath, and turns around, clinging to the post for dear life. The wave recedes, and he can hear the shemlen running back and forth above. He backs up, letting go of the pier, and lets the next wave carry him upward. He grabs on to the bottom of the dock and swings his legs up, setting himself in the hollow between the surface of the dock and the surface of the sea.

He shivers, listening to them look for him, conclude him drowned, and give up. He waits for hours, watching the sun fade and feeling the tide start to come in. Eventually, the tide grows high enough that it is beginning to edge him out of his little air pocket, so he drops back down into the water, hoping that the heat has passed enough that he can get back to the alienage without being spotted.

He creeps along down the wharf, trying not to be seen until his clothes stop dripping. His luck runs out when he's within spitting distance of home. He can see the alienage walls, the top of the vhenadahl, and the two angry shems with cudgels waiting for him to return, standing on the edge of the bridge. He bolts again.

There's no going home. He's going to swing, no matter what he tries, now he's on the outs with the thieves' guild; it's all over.

"I'm sorry, Melia," he whispers, as he runs out of the city gates and down the west highway. "Nothing left for me to do but run." There's only one place in all of Ferelden where he might get a second chance. Pol turns his feet toward the Brecilian Forest.


	4. Forging New Bonds

Junar moves quietly behind the tree and crouches down next to Tamlen. The round-ear is just standing there, looking around nervously. His clothing is dirty and patched, his short scrub of blonde hair and thin face not looking much better. Airadan's whistle comes from further down the perimeter. _I see someone who shouldn't be here._

Tamlen puts his fingers to his lips and calls back; Junar does the same, a moment later. _We see him; there are two of us down here._ The interloper moves off, uncertainly, heading further into their territory, away from the shemlen's little town. Tamlen taps his shoulder and begins to gesture in hunter's speak. _I'm going up the tree to take his back; you move around the side and intercept him before he goes straight into the bears' den._ Junar nods and backs up, stalking through the under-brush to swing wide of the round-ear.

Tamlen is up the tree like a squirrel, and Junar shakes his head. He makes it look so easy. Junar unslings his bow and nocks an arrow, whistling his readiness, though he can clearly see Tamlen from this vantage. The round-ear looks around, looks straight at Tamlen, and doesn't see him. Junar grins. He steps out into the city-elf's path, his own bow at the ready, but pointed low.

"Are you lost?" he challenges. The other elf jumps half out of his skin, and Junar represses a smile. "The shemlen town is back that way," he says, gesturing with a nod.

The blonde elf stares at him. "You're Dalish," he says. Junar snorts.

"You're a round-ear. Go home."

The other elf swallows, hard. "I can't," he says, his voice breaking a little. "I'll be killed."

"The odds on your fate aren't much better out here," Junar says, his tone conversational. "What did you do?"

"I... ran afoul of the thieves' guild. They were going to hang me for stealing. I barely escaped with my life." He looks around nervously, and Junar can see how hollow his cheek is.

"Where are you from?"

"Denerim," he says, focusing on the archer again.

"What's your name?"

"Uh, Pol."

"What kind of skill have you got?"

The city-elf's eyes light up with hope. "Well, I can run, really fast," he says, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. Junar smirks.

He looks the round-ear up and down, taking in the raggedy, filthy clothes, the hollow cheeks and desperate eyes. "I think we'll let the Keeper decide what to do with you," he says.

Pol looks around wildly. "We?"

Tamlen lands on the ground to one side of Pol, and Airadan steps from behind a screen of foliage on the other. Pol looks suitably terrified; Tamlen and Airadan hide their smiles behind coughing and general turning of heads. Junar releases his string and puts the arrow back in his quiver. Slinging his bow over his shoulder, he says, "Follow me."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Marethari paces a circle around the new elf, looking him up and down. "Do you understand what it is you are asking?"

Pol nods. "I think so. Er... Sanctuary?"

Marethari snorts. "No. You are asking to join a clan. We are like a family. As such, there are certain rules you must abide by, or we will abandon you in the wilds. Are we clear?" Pol nods quickly in agreement.

"We all give to the clan, and the clan gives back to us. Our hunters bring in enough meat for everyone. Our gatherers, enough vegetables and herbs. Our artisans create enough for everyone. Every effort is toward the whole. You will become a part of that whole, giving more than you take. I am told that your quickness is your best trait. You will shadow Junar, and learn the bow; become one of our hunters. If we find this role does not suit you, we will come to some other arrangement. Until then, you sleep on a bedroll by the fire, and eat with the rest of us."

She turns away, then stops and looks over her shoulder at him. "You will not be considered an adult among us until you have learned the ways, taken your first kill, and borne your _vallaslin_. Until then, you are as a child. Learn well."

Junar claps Pol on the shoulder and grins as Marethari makes her way across the camp. "Well. Welcome to the clan, then."

Pol lets out a shaking breath. "Maker, I thought she was going to spear me with her eye!"

Junar chuckles. "She might, at that. Listen, I can see that you're hungry. Come with me to the fire, and we'll have something to eat. I'll find you a bed, and we can worry about starting your training tomorrow. Fair enough?"

"Eat? You've got my attention, right."

Junar laughs again, and shows their new cousin to the pot.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Maren sits next to Junar again. She's been watching him for a while now, several cycles of the moon. He's been watching her for a lot longer, though... for years. She's like the halla she cares for: quiet, wild, and fleet of foot. Every man who ever pursued her found himself holding nothing but sunlight and falling leaves.

He brought her a whole bird, three phases ago. Nothing remarkable about that, except for the fact that he had given it to her himself, silently holding it out to her as the hunters distributed shares. She truly looked him in the eye for the first time and stared at him, her eyes swirling with the unbound blue of the summer sky. Her fingers brushed his as she took it, and she snatched her hand away suddenly, her eyes changing.

Two phases passed, and then, one night, she simply sat near him while he was eating. She spent all this last phase slowly sitting closer and closer to him, each night, until last night, she sat next to him. Tonight, her thigh presses against his. He sets aside his empty plate to look at her. She pauses, her fingers coming to rest on the edges of her own plate, her head still bowed.

Slowly, he raises his hand and tucks her hair behind her ear, sweeping that curtain aside so he can see her face. She quivers like a rabbit, shy as the halla themselves. He waits, with a hunter's patience, watching her to see which way she will jump. She looks up at him suddenly, something darker swirling in her eyes.

"They say it was you who decided to bring the city-cousin into the camp," she says, her voice soft as whispers.

He nods. "I did."

"Why?"

He studies her carefully. There is more to this question than just why he decided to let some round-ear into the camp to talk to the Keeper. After a moment, he says, "I never make an important decision until I can think of at least three good reasons to jump one way or the other. He said he is fleet of foot, and we need more archers and hunters. He is fleeing the shemlen because they want to kill him, so he would not betray us back to the humans. I believed him because he is starving, and the way his fingers were shaking was not from fear of us. He would not have survived much longer out here without someone to help him."

She is staring at him again. She sets her plate aside, hands moving automatically, her eyes still locked on his. "You showed him mercy," she says. He's not sure why this is so important to her, but he nods. There is a silence, while she looks at him, and he waits for her to make another move. Her eyes drop to his mouth, and then snap back up to his eyes. She knows he did not miss it, he can read it on her face. He remains still, watching her scare herself, waiting for her to overcome or run.

She looks down again, but her hand strays from her own lap to brush against his knee, and he finally moves, laying his fingers over hers to hold her there. She freezes, trembling again, and he slowly lifts his thumb to stroke the inside of her wrist. Her lips part, and she loses a breath, as though he had done something much more intimate, and he wonders if she has ever let anyone touch her at all. No wonder she trembles so, at the idea of a simple kiss.

Slowly, he moves his hand, letting his fingertips brush along the back of hers, travelling over her wrist and up her forearm, and she shivers, her eyes closing. She leans a little closer, as he keeps going, up and over her shoulder. He lets his hand drift down her back to settle at her waist as she leans ever closer. He smiles as she gets close enough that he can feel her breath on his cheek. She opens her eyes and they widen with a touch of fear, but he doesn't give her time to run, not this time.

He quickly closes that small gap, pressing his lips to hers. She goes rigid, shaking, her fingers flexing and crawling, but she doesn't pull away. He puts his palm to her cheek, sliding his fingers into her hair, and runs his tongue over her lip. She shivers, losing another breath, and then she is melting against him, impulsively flinging her arms around his neck, returning the kiss with ardour.

He takes a deep breath, suddenly finding himself with a lap-full of woman, and hums with interest. He wraps his arms around her hips, pulling her into him, and she whimpers, wriggling closer. He lets his hands wander over her back, her hips, through her hair, and she arches against him, mewling, kissing him like she wants to breathe him in.

He finally breaks away as her breathing becomes ragged, and looks at her steadily. Her eyes flutter open, and she looks startled. She gasps and starts, like she might be inclined to bolt again. "Shh..." he murmurs. "Your desire will follow you no matter how far you fly." He opens his arms, slowly, letting her choose, but she simply trembles against him, and he smiles. "Stay then. I've been waiting for you ever since I heard you singing by the falls. No one else has ever heard you, have they."

"There was no one there," she breathes, shocked. He smiles.

"I was there," he murmurs, running his thumb over her lips.

"Which time?"

"Every time," he says, kissing her again. This time, she doesn't tremble.


	5. Mercy of the Creators

Her feet hit the ground in a staccato rhythm, her heart in her throat, her breathing difficult. The shems thunder and shout behind her, and the screams of her family echo in her ears. If they catch her again, they will hurt her and kill her; just like mamae and papae, sister and gran, brave Gen and Hahren Kassien.

She scrambles across a shifty patch of ground, tumbles down an embankment, and slides into a hollow, under a patch of brambles. The thorns catch her clothing and hold her fast. She claps her hands over her mouth as the shem come near, and tries to hold very, very still. Her heart hammers in the cage of her breast, and she squeezes her eyes shut, hoping that they will not see her. She can hear them, just on the other side of the brush, whispering to each other. She holds her breath, and, at last, they move off.

The idea that they might come back for her keeps her frozen to the spot and she stays there, too terrified to move, for hours. Finally, as the light begins to change and the day cools, she struggles out of her hole and looks around. She is alone in the middle of unfamiliar woods, the road is nowhere in sight, she is badly hurt, and everyone she has ever known, even baby Orrinne, is dead. She sits down on the ground and cries. For the first time in her life, there is no one to comfort her, and this makes her cry harder.

The sharp snap of a branch nearby startles her, and she gasps, turning around quickly. A woman stands behind her with a basket propped on her hip. She takes her foot off the broken stick, quite deliberately. Her pale hair is pulled back in a high tail, showing her pointy ears. She wears strange leather garments and has an actual dagger on her hip. Her eyes are warm and kind. "_Ma him'reth sahlin, da'len*_," the woman murmurs, holding out her hand. When she just looks at the woman distrustfully, she drops her hand and asks, "Are you lost, child?"

Lost, lost, lost, the word echoes in her mind, and the blackness and fear of what has happened to her widens into a giant maw that swallows her whole. A scream bubbles up and claws at the back of her throat, and her eyes widen in shock. She wants to run, but she is so hurt, this woman seems so kind, and she's, most importantly, not a shem. She whimpers and holds out her arms.

The woman comes over, slowly, and reaches out to her. She wraps her arms around the woman's neck and puts her head down; the woman slings her on her hip and carries her away to a strange camp filled with other elves, just like her. A woman like Gran, with kind eyes and gentle hands, bandages her cuts and helps her get clean. Each of the new people comes by to see her, introducing themselves and giving her something nice. By the time she has met them all, she has a honeycomb, a new dress, a blanket, a doll, a string of wooden beads, new shoes, a bowl of warm stew, and a folded piece of cloth that has a story about strange, white animals painted on it.

The woman who found her, Ashalle, gives her a comfortable place to sleep in her wagon, and tucks her in. "You are safe now, child," she murmurs. "You haven't spoken yet, and I understand you might be frightened and tired. I only have one question for you, all right? Can you tell me your name?" She nods and opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, and she pauses, confused.

Ashalle watches her for a moment, and says, "You do not remember, do you." She shakes her head, no, and Ashalle nods in sympathy. "Then, until you remember, will you let me call you Maren? It is the name I always hoped to give my daughter, if I had had one."

She nods. "Maren," she says, agreeing. Ashalle smiles and brushes her hair out of her face.

"Sleep now, da'len. We will see about everything else in the morning."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"Maren," Marethari begins, motioning for her to sit. "Thank you for coming to see me; there is something I wish to discuss with you. You have been with us for twelve years now, and, as you are aware, no one is really sure exactly how old you are. This is not of particular concern, however, certain rites of passage occur at certain points in your life. At sixteen, we assign apprentices. Ashalle reports that you have shown exceptional patience and gentleness, so I would like to suggest that you shadow Brin. Do you consent?"

Maren nods.

"Do you have any questions?"

Maren puts a finger to her lips and looks to the side, thinking, then meets the Keeper's eyes again. She shakes her head, no, then rises to leave. She pauses, looking at the Keeper, before fully straightening, a question in her eyes. Marethari smiles and waves a hand. "No, you can go. Last time I saw her, Brin was headed down to the river."

Maren nods, bows, and takes her leave. She creeps down to the waters' edge and watches Brin with the halla. A wild mare has scented the herd and is seeking to join. She can feel the mare's skittishness, and wants to soothe her, but isn't sure how to proceed. Brin circles wide, putting the halla between herself and the herd. She sees Maren and points for her to remain in place.

Maren crouches where she has been told to wait, behind a tree, watching Brin cluck quietly at the mare. It shies, prancing to the side, and catches sight of Maren. Maren freezes, and the halla watches her, wary. Before Brin can close in on one side, the halla dances toward Maren and sniffs her hair. Maren puts her hand up, slowly, and pets the halla's nose; it nuzzles her, and she giggles. Brin stares at her, shocked, then smiles. "You're a natural, _da'len_. I think we have found your calling."

She studies with Brin for a year, until the halla-keeper marries into another clan, leaving Maren to care for them on her own. Marethari has every confidence in her, however, and Maren keeps the herd in perfect health with an uncanny instinct that Brin was always in awe of. The halla follow her through the woods, running with her and sticking to her heels, protecting her as though she were one of them.

Never gregarious to begin with, her time amongst the halla makes Maren even more taciturn, until she so rarely speaks that she begins to startle people when she does. She avoids most of the clan members most of the time, preferring the quiet company of the herd. She keeps her voice strong, just in case she ever needs to scream, by visiting places where water thunders over stone and talking or singing to herself, careful to ensure that no one is about. From time to time, one of the men of the clan get it into their heads that they might want to kiss her, but she knows just what to do with such things, has always known, right from the day she came to the clan.

When someone tries to touch you, you run.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

There are many who have never tried to pursue her. After the first few met with nothing but silence and averted eyes, most assumed she was not available to such things at all, and simply began to ignore her. She faded into the background, right where she wanted to be. She is useful to the clan in a very important way, and that is enough. The others take her for granted, which gives her the freedom she needs to stand apart.

One day, she notices that there is one other person in the clan who also stands apart, who is also mostly silent, who also fades purposely into the background. Wary, she begins to watch Junar, in case he makes some kind of sudden move that might jeopardize her own standing on the outskirts. She notices things about him: how he holds himself with confidence and walks with grace, always keeps his word and never loses heart in the face of adversity, the practised ease in the way he draws his bow and the superior aim that puts him second to none.

Sometimes he catches her watching, and just looks at her, his eyes completely unreadable. After a moment, he will turn, but he always glances back, just once, before he walks away. Something about this makes her stomach quiver, but her legs will not obey; she cannot bring herself to run from that, because he never comes closer, never tries to catch her.

Sometimes he will be there, standing on the path, when she returns to camp with a basket of herbs. She stops, her heart in her throat, but he never makes a move toward her. He just looks at her with those serious eyes, then turns and walks away, but always with the backward glance that pins her to the spot, as surely as one of his arrows.

One day, with no warning, he walks up to her, he actually comes near enough that she can feel the heat of his body, and puts one of his kills in her hand. He provides, for her. His fingers brush along hers, and it makes her skin tingle; a sudden rush of warmth washes up her arm and tugs at her heart. She snatches her hand away, shocked, and he turns and walks away. She watches after him, waiting for the backward glance, but it does not come. This hurts her heart, and she thinks on it for phases.

During all that time, she finds herself waiting for him to come near again, but he does not. She looks for him upon the path, but he is not there. She watches him at the fire in the evening, and sometimes he will catch her, that now-familiar backward glance still making her tremble. She finds herself thinking about how warm he had been, though he only stood near. She remembers the way he had made her skin catch fire, just by the brush of his fingers, and sometimes she finds herself running her own fingertips over the place where he had touched her.

She is surprised when he, Tamlen, and Airadan bring back a city-cousin. Another, like her, hunted by the shemlen. She watches the new arrival with a mixture of trepidation and empathy.

The way she feels makes her tremble with fear, but he is so steady and quiet, he makes it easy to get closer, little by little, night by night. The night she gets close enough to feel his warmth, she cannot sleep, after, for thinking of the way his touch had affected her. The next day, she cannot keep her mind on her work; she is distracted, and slowly going mad from it. By the time the evening meal comes, all she can think about is sitting next to him again, feeling that warmth again. She wants to touch him, and so she presses her leg against his.

It takes all her self-control not to run, when he touches her, when he moves her hair, when he looks at her. It is the fact that he was motivated by mercy in the matter of Pol that brings her to him. Once she lets him in, once she lets him touch her, kiss her, she is his forever. She cannot leave his side, whenever he is near. The people of the clan are surprised, at first, but soon grow used to her as his shadow, and they are quietly bonded within two months of that first kiss. Junar begs Marethari to let them forego the usual ceremony, and just make their vows, because Maren is too terrified of being in front of the whole clan like that.

It is barely a month after their bonding when he is carried back to camp by a giant shemlen, broken and poisoned. Maren sits at his side, in a cold agony of horrified despair, until he wakes, at last. She is so relieved, she cries, for the first time since she was a child. He holds her, and she clings to him desperately, but to no avail. Marethari forbids her from following him, and she stands on the path as he is forced to leave the clan, her eyes wild, destroyed by misery. He looks back, one last time, his gaze echoing her desperate sorrow, and then he is gone.

Her hands are empty. She never wants to speak again.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

She marks time by the hours, by the days and phases, by the cycles and the seasons, the passing of two long years. The fourth cycle of the third year, on the third day of the first phase, she is standing on the beach, staring at the ocean, empty-handed. The coldness of her despair has hardened to an ever-aching knot that she has learned to live with. She has grown thin; she feels like a ghost. The ocean pulls upon the other members of the clan, and she sees them becoming more content by the day.

She wishes she could participate in that.

She stands there for hours, watching the waves retreat. As they pause and begin to advance again, she becomes aware of a shadow on the beach, and turns toward it. A figure comes ever closer, finally resolving into the shape of a man in armour. He trudges along the sand, head bent to the task, watching his feet. She puts her fingers to her lips and whistles, hears the answering finch, and knows that the hunters are watching, so she retreats to the safety of the nearby wood to watch.

Tamlen drops down out of a tree, to one side of her, and flattens himself behind a dune. When the man comes close enough, he stands up, arrow measured, and challenges him.

"Are you lost? The shemlen town is back that way," he says, gesturing with his chin in the direction the man has come from. The warrior stops, slowly turning to look at Tamlen. He removes his helm, and Maren is struck by lightning.

He smiles wolfishly and says, "You're Dalish."

Maren is in motion before she realizes what she is about, before Tamlen has even had a chance to speak, and she throws herself into his arms.

For the second time, she cries, hysterical tears all over his neck, her voice ragged and broken with disuse. "Junar," she rasps, the first word she has spoken in two years, the first time she has used her voice at all. He folds his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. "_Ma'arlath_," she whispers, the stone that has trapped her heart finally cracking.

"_Emm'asha, emma sa'lath, emma vhenan'sara__._ I will never leave your side again, this I swear to you," he murmurs fervently in her ear. "I have seen so much blood and death; all I could think of, all this time, was coming home, returning to you."

"_El halam abelas sahlin_," she whispers, and he laughs, half sob, resting his forehead against hers and stroking his thumbs over her cheeks.

"Yes, _emma_ _da'vhenan_, for as many days as we have left."

_* All the pretty Elvish:_

_Ma him'reth sahlin, da'len : You are safe now, little one._

_Ma'arlath: I love you_

_Emm'asha, emma sa'lath, emma vhenan'sara:_ _My girl, my one love, my heart's only desire._

_El halam abelas sahlin: Our sorrow can end now._

_emma da'vhenan:_ _my little heart_


	6. Antivan Massage

Liddy is so very sore. He can see it in the way that she holds herself, the way she walks. Taking off the armour is the first thing she does when she gets to camp. She rolls her shoulders and looks at it hatefully. She is not a fighter, was not born to this life like he was.

He thought, at first, when he joined this group, that there was some kind of romantic connection between her and Alistair, but he made a grave tactical error in revealing his heritage to her only as they reached Redcliffe. He saw her face transform with horror and she backed away from the poor boy. Now she's all full of 'yes, ser' and 'no, ser', and this has made Alistair twist up in knots, but it also made things very clear for Zevran.

Now, as she takes the padding off, her shirt rides up, and he sees the angry welts and, in some places, the beginnings of bruises, that have been caused by the armour and weaponry she wears. His poor Warden; her skin must be so impossibly soft. He's been itching to get his hands on her for weeks. So this time, as she trudges wearily off to the river, he follows her. He deliberately makes noise as he walks up behind her.

She looks over her shoulder as she takes off her boots, looks up at him, and smiles. "Zev," she says, her voice _sotto_ and warm. "Gonna watch me from the open this time?" she teases, a mischievous sparkle to her eye.

He folds his arms, returning her smile with a rakish tilt. "I rather thought I would offer something more, this time," he replies, leaning down. He does not miss the way his proximity makes her blush. As he gets close enough to murmur in her ear, she grows a little skittish, trembling like a rabbit, and he knows he's got her. "I can see by the way you carry yourself that you are in pain... All the walking, it has gotten to you, yes?" he purrs.

"Mh... Uh... Yes? The armour hurts me," she replies. "It's so heavy."

"Poor girl... Do you know what you need?"

"A bath and some sleep?"

"Oh, no, I believe more drastic measures must be applied." He rests his hands on her shoulders and she jumps, but doesn't move away. Oh, how she trembles. Gently, he applies pressure to the aching muscles under her shoulder-blades and she moans, suddenly, her eyes slipping closed. "Ah... See, I am right. What I am suggesting is that we retire to my tent, and I show you some of the massage techniques that can only be learned in an Antivan whorehouse. Hmm?"

She shivers, and licks her lips. "Oh! I- uh. This isn't just about that, is it," she whispers breathlessly, more statement than question.

He laughs under his breath and slides his fingers into her hair, lifting it away from her ear. "Let me just say... you will never be disappointed with _any_ of my skills." He pauses, removing his hands, and she sags, with a little whimper. "Unless you're not of a mind..." He pulls back, a small, knowing smile playing about his lips.

She moans quietly. "Oooh, but I hurt so much," she confesses. She bites her lip and looks up at him, and he spreads his hands, helplessly. "I... Wait. I need to think. I'll be right back." She wades out into the water in her bare feet and sits on a rock with her back to him. She pulls off her shirt, and he can see the angry outlines of her armour and the ridges of abused muscle; he winces on her behalf. Lecherous though he might be feeling, the massage is truly something she needs.

At last, she returns to the shore, and sits down again to pull on her boots. She stands, and fidgets nervously, twisting her fingers together and staring at her boots. Of all things, something he did not expect is to see Liddy blush. She looks up at him shyly.

He moves closer, letting her feel the heat of his body, and she shivers. "So you've said," he purrs. "Have you come to a decision?"

Her eyes widen, and she wraps her arms around her waist in an effort to hide how she quivers for him. "I-" She takes a deep breath. "Yes... Yes."

Ah, just what he wants to hear. He takes her by the hand, and they go to camp in a roundabout way, so as to come upon his tent from the back. Camp surroundings are hardly the ideal place for such activity, but, above all, she is in dire need of some kind of relief from the pain. The rest... Well. That tends to take care of itself.

She sits on his bedroll nervously, watching him rummage in his pack, and pulls her knees up to her chest. He glances over at her. "Take off your boots," he suggests. "Be comfortable. This will take a long time," he says, smiling to himself. He pulls out the bottle of oil he has been searching for, vanilla and cinnamon scented - the vanilla to ease the mind, the cinnamon to ease the muscles.

She begins to look skittish as he pours a small amount into his hand. He tucks the bottle into the waist of his pants to begin warming it, and rubs the oil between his hands. "Do not be nervous, my Warden; I will be gentle," he says in a quiet voice. "We will start with something easy, yes? Give me your hand."

Hesitantly, she holds her hand out, palm up, and he turns it over, folding it between his own, and curving it over his fingertips, pressing into the pressure points on her palm, kneading at the joint of her thumb, and stroking his own down the back of her hand toward her wrist. Her eyes immediately go half-lidded, and she sighs with pleasure. He is quiet as he works his way up her arm, pushing her shirt out of the way, until he reaches her elbow, where he stops and switches to her other hand. By now the oil has warmed from his own body heat, and she sighs again, her head dropping forward.

She frowns and opens her eyes when he stops. "I cannot reach any more unless you let me remove your shirt," he says, mildly, carefully keeping a neutral face. "Usually, these things are done while lying down. Consider how you feel, just giving me your hands, and then, just think, what could be, if you give me your back." He sees her lips part with desire, though she is not aware of it, and waits. She blushes, but turns her back to him again, and draws her shirt off over her head. She looks over her shoulder at him, and he gestures to the bed roll.

She lays down on her stomach, holding her shirt to her chest. "Put your arms down to your sides," he instructs. She gasps when he straddles her thighs, twisting to look back at him distrustfully. She is apparently unaware of how she defeats her purpose in trying to remain covered, exposing her breast to him as she does this, and he tries to be reassuring. "Ahh, such eyes you give me, _dolcezza_," he chides. "You will see; this is only what is required." Gently, he presses her shoulder, and she reluctantly lies down again.

He pours more oil into his hand and leans forward, smoothing his hands up her back, and she sags, all the nervous tension going out of her in a rush, leaving behind only the work of tending to the angry muscles. As her back relaxes and he begins to go over her sides, his sleeves get in the way, beginning to absorb some of the oil, and he pauses long enough to take his shirt off. She opens her eyes as the fabric whispers over his hair and lands on the floor of the tent, beginning to doubt again.

He continues his ministrations, and her eyes flutter closed again before she can think of what to say in protest, but he answers her unspoken worry, anyway. "My shirt dragging in the oil, gets in the way," he murmurs. She hums her pleasure, her tension giving way under his expert touch. She gasps when he reaches around her waist to undo the clasp of her belt, and he murmurs in her ear, "Just like your hands, I cannot reach much else besides your feet if you yet wear breeches, my Warden." Oh, how she trembles as he peels that leather away, revealing her long legs and all that prettily curved muscle.

He begins with her feet, safe territory to reassure her, but her legs have taken so much abuse, with all the walking and the fighting she is unused to, that they are tangled up in fearsome knots. As he reaches her thighs, she is moaning softly under her breath, and he is amazed she is still walking at all. He follows the line of the knots all the way up to her hips, and then, of course, across her bottom as well. She shifts, her brow furrowing, and he smiles. "Shhh... Do you not feel that hard muscle? It should be supple, as soft and flexible as the rest of you, _cara_, let me fix it," he murmurs, and he knows the release of the pain will convince her more than any honeyed words he might employ.

It is the next part where she might baulk, so he takes his time, curling his hands around her, kneading at the muscles close to the front of her body as well as he can, before he wraps his arms around her thigh and waist, turning her. She protests, weakly, but by then she is already on her back, her beautiful breasts exposed to the air, and he takes a moment to marvel at her. Her eyes open, and she looks at him, drunk on relief. There is no longer any trace of distrust, but she is disappointed at the ceasing of his ministrations, distress crossing that pretty face, and he hurries to smooth it away.

"Shh... _è__ solo l'inizio, dolcezza_," he murmurs, and returns to her feet. Her eyes flutter closed again as he works his way up her legs, parting them slowly, enjoying the expressions that cross her face as he locates and subdues each angry knot, in turn. She doesn't even bat an eyelash when he parts her thighs, going for the painful and sensitive areas near her sex, so close to that place that he can smell is just aching for a massage all its own. He ignores it for now, smiling to himself as she whimpers when he skips over it, running his hands over the tops of her hips and onward over her stomach.

He kneels there between her thighs, smoothing his hands over her chest, kneading carefully at the angry little fingers of muscle that stand up beneath her breasts, and he tears a full-throated moan from her as they begin to relax, at last. She looks up at him, eyes wild, and he smiles down at her, his hips just a breath away from being pressed tightly against hers. Her lips part and he shifts his hands to the bed roll, slowly lowering himself down to her. She doesn't move until the last moment, but it is only to close that distance, impatiently, as she arches upward for a kiss. He lets her have her way, letting her taste him, passive for the moment, just encouraging her exploration; she has all the finesse of a drunken barn fumble, but he can remedy that soon enough. For now, it tells him much, and he begins to suspect she might be completely untried.

"Do you desire more?" he asks, pulling back reluctantly, and she, breathlessly, looks up at him in confusion. He smiles. "Oh yes, there's more." Her eyes dilate, and he grins when she nods, slowly. He moves back from her and puts his hands under her knees, lifting them. She slides her feet back, obediently, and he has to repress a surge of desire. So giving, so trusting, his Warden. He leans forward, slowly sliding his hands under her bottom until she lifts her hips for him, and then he curls his fingers into her smalls, and she doesn't protest, so he slowly pulls them toward him, until he has them over her knees and off. She closes her eyes, her knees pressing together, and he shakes his head.

"Tch, that will never do," he admonishes. Gently, he puts his hands between her knees and pushes them apart, encouraging her to let them fall open. She shivers, a flicker of fear crossing her face, but he holds her gaze steadily, and she bites her lip, letting him have his will. He slips his hands under her hips, pressing his fingers to either side of the base of her spine, and pulling downward, his hands neatly cupping each side of her ass, stroking along that sensitive line of flesh right on the outside of anything crucial, over and over again: under the hips, to the base of the spine, and downward again. Each time he makes a pass, he brings his hands just a little farther upward, just a fraction, until his fingers are curling around the edge of her thighs, caressing the outer edges of her sex.

She moans, her legs parting ever further, and he switches his grip, pulling from the luscious curve of her bottom, up the inside edges of her groin. He runs his thumbs up over her outer lips, still working with what's strictly visible, and she covers her mouth with her fingertips, moaning softly as he nears that sensitive pearl between the folds, but he leaves it untouched, and she trembles from it. He presses the flat of his hand against her mound, the cleft at the base of his palm leaving that sensitive point yet innocent, bereft, as he rolls the rest in circles over the curve of bone that sits just behind it. He presses the balls of his thumbs together, fanning his hands out across her hips, kneading gently, letting the movement ripple sinuously out along his fingers.

He uses that gentle pressure to sweep curving stripes out toward her hipbones, one hand after the other, always one with the pressure to the centre, while the other caresses all the sensitive skin between her slit and her belly-button, and all the way down between her legs and to the blanket. When her hips begin to rise, when she begins to whimper, he pauses.

He rises to his knees again and covers her body with his own, placing his hands to either side of her neck, and letting her arch against him wantonly, her hands coming up almost of their own accord to stroke his chest. He returns her hungry kiss, but he makes her work for it, straining upward to catch him, to suckle at his mouth like a babe at the teat. At last, he turns his face aside and leans down, allowing his chest to brush ever-so-lightly against hers, as he whispers in her ear. "Do you wish me to continue, my Warden?"

She whimpers, her fingers flexing against his skin. Her thighs press against his hips, and she nods, most emphatically, blushing and looking up at him shyly. He spreads his knees with sudden force, making her legs stay at an outward angle, and she gasps; this also affords him the stability he needs to move without need of his hands for balance. He plunges his hands into her hair, curling his fingers behind her head and into her scalp, letting her hair fall through his fingers like strands of silk. She moans softly, her eyes closing again, and cries out sharply when he grabs two fistfuls, but he can see by the soft, questing set of her mouth that this is not pain.

After a time, when she has become breathless from hair-play alone, he relents, his hands slipping down across her shoulders, and onto her breasts. He kneads each mound of flesh in his strong hands, knowing just how to roll them to release the tension in the muscle beneath, the part that cannot be reached by any other means. This has the added benefit of requiring direct pressure to the nipple, almost continuously, and she begins to shiver, quietly moaning in little gasps.

He lets his hands wander downward again, still watching her intently, still leaning over her. When his hands dip between her legs again, she cries out softly, her hips rising. He presses the backs of his fingers together, bracing his palms against her thighs, and runs his fingertips up the inside of her slit, on both sides. She is already so wet, he requires nothing else to make this an easy thing, a highly pleasurable thing, as she is discovering, judging by the open-mouthed look of abandon on her face.

He sinks his fingers just a little bit deeper, pressing his thumbs to the tiny ridge of flesh between her two holes, and, very carefully, discovers that his earlier guess was correct. She shivers and bucks under his hands, and he gives her a taste of what is possible, should she choose to continue; he slips one finger into that tight channel and presses directly upon that aching little pearl. She arches upward with a sharp, impassioned cry, breathless with surprise and sudden pleasure. He leaves his hands as they are, stilling his motion, and waits for her to open her eyes, to catch her breath.

Her eyes flutter open, her chest still heaving magnificently, and he holds her eyes. Very deliberately, he slowly moves the finger he has inside her, circling those walls, just once, and she gasps; now that she has to look at him, it is a different thing for her, and he can see warring desire and nervousness upon her face. "There are three possible outcomes, right now," he murmurs. "I can continue this, until you scream with it..." She shivers, her lips parting again. "You can give yourself over to me, and I will show you such delights as you have never known," he purrs heatedly, and he can feel from the way she flexes inwardly that this idea appeals to her most. "Or, I can stop, and leave you nearly as pure as you were when you came in here," he says, removing his hands entirely.

Her eyes fly wide, sudden fear writ plain across them, and he suppresses his urge to grin as he puts his hands to either side of her shoulders. He knows by that look alone that she will not leave this tent the same woman she was when she came in. He cocks his head, watching her struggle to speak her desire, to ask for something she has never asked for. "Don't stop," she breathes, at last, and reaches up to wrap her arms around his neck. He kisses her, slow and languorous, smoothing out her rough edges a little. She is an apt pupil, and responds easily to his lessons, instantly applying her new-found knowledge, and he appreciates this a great deal. There is much he can do with her, if she lets him.

He pulls back just a fraction, just far enough to part them, and waits until she looks at him again. "Tell me what you desire. What shouldn't I stop, hm?" he asks, dropping his voice lower, knowing the effect it will have on her. She is at a loss, nearly speechless with the force of her desire, and this is so very sexy, so very sweet. She blinks, and he closes the distance between his hips and hers, rocking against her gently, letting her feel the hard length of him against her thigh, knowing how the texture of the laces will scrape across her swollen lips and make her ache for him. He never said he would play fair. "Is this what you want?"

She gasps, her thighs flexing against his hips. Her lip trembles as she stumbles over her tongue, but at last, she says one, clear, breathless word: "Yes."

He reaches down between them with both hands again, one to keep her occupied and stretch her a bit, to get her used to the feeling of something inside her, and the other to untie his breeches and push them down over his hips. He kicks them impatiently to the side, focusing on watching Liddy writhe on the blanket beneath her. One of her hands seemingly subconsciously, reaches up to tangle in her hair, while the other strays across her breast, her eyes closed, her mouth just begging to be kissed.

Slowly, slowly, he works another finger in to join the first, while she bucks and moans. He presses himself against his own palm, easing his fingers out at the same time as he eases himself inside, and then when it comes to that tight barrier, he leans down and kisses her, pulling her hair and entering her at the same time. She arches against him, her hips rising without conscious volition on her part, and he swallows her cry, filling her, stretching her to fit himself within, and claiming her in a very permanent way, no matter where she may roam after this.

He can tell by the fluttering flex inside her that she is already close, just from this simple act of entering her. Ah, virgins, so easy when you know what you are doing. He rolls his hips against hers, seating himself fully, and she throws her head back, clutching his shoulders, her fingers leaving little furrows of welts in their wake, all along his back. He does not give her time to think, to worry; he rocks against her, letting it build up within, and then stops, right when he can feel her just on the edge.

She whimpers, looking up at him with reproach, and he chuckles. He waits another moment, until he can feel her relaxing, and then he begins to move again. Now that she is a little more used to his presence, he can do other things, give her something better than that first, weak little flutter would have afforded. He gathers her in his arms and sits back, pulling her into his lap, changing the angle and this has the added benefit of making her take him in a much deeper way. She shudders, jumping and flexing in his lap like a little rabbit, and he laughs, running his hands down her back. "Shh..." he murmurs, continuing his comforting stroke all the way down to her ankles. He draws them back behind him, hooking one over the other; she is so very pliant, so very beautiful in her trust.

She spreads her thighs wider, all uncertainty fled as he wraps his arms around her again and takes control of her hips. This is his favourite way to teach a woman how to move; she has the freedom to try, and he has the ability to correct, to move her against him if necessary. But Liddy, his beautiful Warden, is such a quick learner, it does not take him much effort to teach her the proper roll, and soon she has him breathless as well, and that is no mean feat. For a virgin? Ah, she is a natural. She cannot keep it up for long, unused to such exertions as she is, but he is very much looking forward to the days to come.

He takes over for her when she falters, slowing them down so that it will take much, much longer. He revels in every whimper and sigh, in the way she desperately begins to chant his name, in the ever-increasing pace of her breath, in the flex of her fingers against his back and the way her thighs tremble. He tastes her skin, taking his time, kissing her neck and measuring her collar bone with his lips. She arches, her head lolling back, showing a long, pale expanse of throat. He kisses her there, right where her pulse flutters in her neck, and she moans, suddenly grinding against him with urgent need.

He reaches up and grabs a fistful of her hair again, tipping her head to suit him, and devouring her mouth, swallowing the full-throated cry that wants to escape her, silencing it by licking the roof of her mouth and holding her tightly. She bucks wildly against him, perhaps over-sensitive now, and the tightness of her as she tugs on him has him spilling into her within moments, a soft groan escaping into her mouth.

She collapses against him bonelessly, burying her face in his neck, and begins to cry. Startled, he wraps his arms around her and runs his fingers through her hair. She makes no move to pull away; perhaps she is simply overwhelmed. She clings to him tightly until the sobbing subsides, and he can pull back to look at her face. "What is all this, hm? Do you suddenly regret?"

She shakes her head, choking on a laugh. "No! You know how I grew up; I spent so many years running from the idea that it was something to be sold to whoever had the most coin. I never thought I would get to give it of my own free will." She kisses him, holding his face in her hands. "I never have to worry about it again, and... considering how much we have in common? I can't think of another person more deserving. I just didn't know how much I needed you, not until you were kissing me," she whispers, and shakes her head. "Please tell me we can do this again."

He laughs. "Again? Tch. What will the others think?" he asks, teasing her, and she giggles.

"I don't care," she replies, "I've never been happier. I'm not going to give that up without a fight."

"Ah, my Warden, you do not have to fight. Not for this," he murmurs, kissing her neck again. "It is yours for the asking."

"Then I'm asking: please, let me stay here, with you," she replies, a little breathlessly.

He laughs, quietly. "Of course. Sleep, Liddy. The morning will find us, regardless."


End file.
